The shades of midnight had parted our young combatants, and silent and
alone, Ben had trotted home to his printing-office; but still in his
restless thoughts the combat raged in all its fury: still burning for
victory, where truth and the ladies were at stake, he fell to
mustering his arguments again, which now at the drum-beat of
recollection came crowding on him so thick and strong that he felt
equally ashamed and astonished that he had not utterly crushed his
antagonist at once. He could see no reason on earth why Collins had
made a drawn battle of it, but by his vastly superior eloquence. To
deprive him of this advantage, Ben determined to attack him with his
pen. And to this he felt the greater inclination, as they were not to
meet again for several nights. So, committing his thoughts to paper,
and taking a fair copy, he sent it to him. Collins, who, "was not born
in the woods to be scared by an owl," quickly answered, and Ben
rejoined. In this way several vollies had passed on both sides, when
good old Josias chanced to light upon them all; both the copies of
Ben's letters to Collins, and the answers. He read them with a deep
interest, and that very night sent for Ben that he might talk with him
on their contents. "_So Ben!_" said he to him as he pressed his
beloved hand, "_you have got into a paper war already, have you?_"
Ben blushed.
I don't mean to blame you, my son, continued the old gentleman. I
don't blame you; on the contrary I am delighted to see you taking such
pains to improve your mind. Go on, my dear boy, go on; for your mind
is the only part that is worth your care: and the more you accustom
yourself to find your happiness in _that_, the better. The body, as I
have a thousand times told you, is but nicely organized earth, that in
spite of the daintiest meats and clothes, will soon grow old and
withered, and then die and rot back to earth again. But the MIND, Ben,
is the HEAVENLY part, the IMMORTAL inhabitant, who, if early nursed
with proper thoughts and affections, is capable of a feast that will
endure for ever.
This your little controversy with your friend Collins is praiseworthy,
because it has a bearing on that grand point, the improvement of your
mind.
But let me suggest a hint or two, my son, for your better conduct of
it. You have greatly the advantage of Mr. Collins in correctness of
spelling and pointing; which you owe entirely to your profession as a
printer; but then he is as far superior to you in other respects. He
certainly has not so good a cause as you have, but, he manages it
better. He clothes his ideas with such elegance of expression, and
arranges his arguments with so much perspicuity and art, as will
captivate all readers in his favour, and snatch the victory from you,
notwithstanding your better cause. In confirmation of these remarks,
the old gentleman drew from his pocket the letters of their
correspondence, and read to him several passages, as strong cases in
point.
Ben sensibly felt the justice of these criticisms, and after thanking
his father for his goodness in making them, assured him, that as he
delighted above all things in reading books of a beautiful style, so
he was resolved to spare no pains to acquire so divine an art.
The next day, going into a fresh part of the town, with a paper to a
new subscriber, he saw, on the side of the street, a little table
spread out and covered with a parcel of toys, among which lay an odd
volume, with a neat old woman sitting by. As he approached the table
to look at the book, the old lady lifting on him a most pleasant
countenance, said, "_well my little man do you ever dream dreams?_"
Ben rather startled at so strange a salutation, replied, that he had
_dream't_ in his time.--_Well_, continued the old woman, _and what do
you think of dreams; do you put any faith in 'em?_
Why, no, madam, answered Ben; as I have seldom had dreams except after
taking too hearty a supper, I have always looked on 'em as a mere
matter of indigestion, and so have never troubled my head much about
'em.
_Well now_, replied the old lady, laughing, _there's just the
difference between you and me. I, for my part, always takes great
notice of dreams, they generally turn out so true._ And now can you
tell what a droll dream I had last night?
Ben answered that he was no Daniel to interpret dreams.
Well, said the old lady, I dreamed last night, that a little man just
like you, came along here and bought that old book of me.
Aye! why that's a droll dream sure enough, replied Ben; and pray,
Madam, what do you ask for your old book?
_Only four pence halfpenny_, said the old lady.
Well, Madam, continued Ben, as your dreaming has generally, as you
say, turned out true, it shall not be otherwise now; _there's your
money_--so now as you have another reason for putting faith in dreams,
you can dream again.
As Ben took up his book to go away, the old lady said, stop a minute,
my son, stop a minute. I have not told you the whole of my dream yet.
Then looking very gravely at him, she said, But though my dream showed
that the book was to be bought by a _little_ man, it did not say he
was always to be little. No; for I saw, in my dream, that he grew up
to be a GREAT man; the lightnings of heaven played around his head,
and the shape of a kingly crown was beneath his feet. I heard his name
as a pleasant sound from distant lands, and I saw it through clouds of
smoke and flame, among the tall victor ships that strove in the last
battle for the freedom of the seas. She uttered this with a raised
voice and glowing cheek, as though the years to come, with all their
mighty deeds, were passing before her.
Ben was too young yet to suspect who this old woman was, though he
felt as he had read the youthful Telemachus did, when the fire-eyed
Minerva, in the shape of Mentor, roused his soul to virtue.
Farewell, Madam, said Ben with a deep sigh, as he went away; you might
have spared that part of your dream, for I am sure there is very
little chance of its ever coming to pass.
But though Ben went away to attend to his brother's business, yet the
old woman's looks made such an impression on his mind, that he could
not help going the next day to see her again; but she was not there
any more.
On leaving the old woman, he opened his book, when, behold, what
should it be but an odd volume of the Spectator, a book which he had
not seen before. The number which he chanced to open was the vision of
Mirzah; which so caught his attention that he could not take it off
until he had got through. What the people thought of him for reading
in that manner as he walked along the street, he knew not; nor did he
once think, he was so taken up with his book. He felt as though he
would give the world to write in so enchanting a style; and to that
end he carried his old volume constantly in his pocket, that by
committing, as it were, to memory, those sweetly flowing lines, he
might stand a chance to fall into the imitation of them. He took
another curious method to catch Addison's charming style; he would
select some favourite chapter out of the Spectator, make short
summaries of the sense of each period, and put them for a few days
aside; then without looking at the book, he would endeavour to restore
the chapter to its first form, by expressing each thought at full
length.
These exercises soon convinced him that he greatly lacked a fund of
words, and a facility of employing them; both of which he thought
would have been abundantly supplied, had he but continued his old
trade of _making verses_. The continual need of words of the same
_meaning_, but of different _lengths_, for the _measure_; or of
different sounds, for the _rhyme_, would have obliged him to seek a
variety of _synonymes_. From this belief he took some of the papers
and turned them into verse; and after he had sufficiently forgotten
them, he again converted them into prose.
On comparing _his_ Spectator with the original, he discovered many
faults; but panting, as he did, for perfection in this noble art,
nothing could discourage him. He bravely persevered in his
experiments, and though he lamented that in most instances he still
fell short of the charming original, yet in some he thought he had
clearly improved the order and style. And when this happened, it gave
him unspeakable satisfaction, as it sprung the dear hope that in time
he should succeed in writing the English language in the same
enchanting manner.